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if you saw him on the street
you wouldn't glance twice
because he does not look extraordinary
and he does not make your heart
skip a beat

but
when you listen to the wonderful, tinkling sound
of his laughter
and his inexcusable, almost inappropriately funny remarks
and when you happen to be lucky enough
to catch him smiling when no one is watching; he makes
your head spin

he is not the most beautiful to the rest of the world
and his eyes do not compare to the brightest of stars, his
hair is not an ocean-type mess and his freckles are not like grains of sand

instead his eyes are like like warm hot chocolate when
you are barely awake and are trying to get through the day, his hair is the
disaster that you can't help but be captivated by and his freckles are like carefully placed light orange dots that seem to connect in a way

I do not see him on the street anymore--
and that is the reason that I no longer
drink hot chocolate and why I hate the color orange
because god, he was not the most beautiful boy in the world
and he wouldn't make a stranger's heart beat twice
but he made mine
and in the end,
that was all that really mattered
"i'll be your augustus if you'll be my hazel grace"

thinking out loud by ed sheeran

this poem is bad. very bad. i apologize if you have now been traumatized by my terrible writing.
 Dec 2014 Emma Steele
kgl
Cigarette
 Dec 2014 Emma Steele
kgl
like a cigarette, ignited and raised to your scornful lips
you made me your addiction
and i let you consume me
 Dec 2014 Emma Steele
Jamie
It's been a while,
A good while,
But it's back.
There's nothing I can do
I'm helpless in thinking about you
 Dec 2014 Emma Steele
Miki
Wrapped in your scent
I think of then
I think what could have been
If i had felt something more
If loving people wasnt a chore
I wish i could do more
We
Could have done more
But oh
Love is a bore

No

Love is fire
We were rain
Love was never
Part of our game
Your name
It sends chills down my spine
And no
Not the good kind

We were wet
Sloppy
Gross
And you loved the most
I was new to this feeling of comfort
Comfort
Was it comfort?
Was it comfort that kept me up at night
Wondering if my head was alright
Wondering if i was holding you tight
Enough?
Because you never seemed ok
With my selfish
Distant ways
And i never knew what to say
To do
How to act

But today
Holding your essence
In the naked palm
Of my hand
I felt that slighy
Small
Maybe

We could have been something someday
Can I wear your hoodie again?
 Dec 2014 Emma Steele
curlygirl
Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.
 Dec 2014 Emma Steele
WickedHope
I
h
a
v
e
f
e
e
l
i
n
g
s
that
form
thou
ghts,
that
form
words,
that          form
sente            ­     nces,
that                       form
rope,                         which
ties                               itself
into a                            noose.
Your                         ­     words
are also                    a rope,
that saves me from
drowning.
Sorry if you can't read it.
Kinda.
I knew you would forget, just as soon as the sun would rise,
But your words, cliché and hollow, came as no surprise.
I asked but one small favor, at both break and close of day,
Just to hear you say hello, but now, hope's bled away.
 Dec 2014 Emma Steele
cursed
You're my source of happiness.
I can't be happy if my happiness is not happy.
 Dec 2014 Emma Steele
Bluebird
she tells me that i lack a little something
to be her perfect man.
it's such a pretty way to tell me that i
will never be him.
oh the irony
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